Settling In
by Shadowlass
Summary: It's Spike's first night at the Hyperion, and everybody has a little adjusting to do. Each chapter from a different POV.
1. Angel

TITLE: Settling In

AUTHOR: Shadowlass

EMAIL: shadowlass2000@yahoo.com

SUMMARY: It's Spike's first night at the Hyperion, and everyone has a little adjusting to do. Each chapter from a different POV. BtVS post-"Chosen," AtS post-"Home"

RATING: PG-13

DISCLAIMER: I don't own BtVS or AtS, and surprisingly few other TV shows.

**Angel**

He's upstairs. He's got the door shut, and he's been quiet, and neither of those are much like Spike, but it's him. It talks like him, it moves like him, it looks—

Like William. He looks like William, not Spike. Spike was the name he took when he decided he was the baddest vamp ever to start a riot, much less tear his way through the populace of London. He wasn't bleaching his hair yet, but the punk that he became, with his duster and his skintight jeans—that was Spike to a tee. The quiet human who showed up at the Hyperion this morning didn't look much like Spike at all.

"You're dead," I said.

"No, I'm not," he replied calmly. He looked at me steadily, and I understood that he didn't mean that he hadn't become dust when the Hellmouth collapsed. He meant he wasn't dead any longer. 

Not like me.

He Shanshued. He Shanshued, instead of me. Lilah handed it to me, the pendant that would bring Shanshu, and I didn't recognize it. I handed it over to Buffy without much of an argument, and she gave it to him, and he Shanshued, and I never will, because the prophecy? It was about one vampire who became human. Not two vampires, or three, or an endless supply of vampires, one after the other. Just the one.

It all hinged on Buffy. She could have worn the pendant herself, although it was risky, or she could have given it to Faith, or she could have given it to half the people in her damn house. 

But she chose Spike. He was her champion, and he wore the sign of her favor into battle.

And now he's upstairs. He's probably sleeping; he isn't as strong as he once was, doesn't have the stamina he used to. His face, sunburned and surrounded by a shock of curling sandy hair, looked tired when he came in.

He hasn't mentioned Buffy.

He will, I know. Soon, probably. I don't know what to tell him. She hasn't settled down yet. Or she has, and just hasn't told me. I don't know which.

He ate breakfast with Fred and Wes and Gunn and Lorne this morning. I sat there, too, although I didn't eat and I was tired and wanted to go to sleep. I couldn't bring myself to go upstairs. I kept watching him compulsively, trying to see what was different about him.

The answer was, not very much. It was frustrating: this thing I'd worked towards for so long, and Spike mostly seemed like … Spike. That wasn't how the Shanshu was supposed to work, right? He was doing it wrong. Breathing? Blinking? Sniffling? It had to be wrong. How could he seem so casual about it? Didn't he understand what it was, the gift he'd been given?

How—_how_—could it have been him? Spike, who got us chased out of tiny villages and magnificent cities. Spike, who could only have sprung from a sire as mad and powerful as Drusilla. He inherited her power and recklessness, but not her insanity; he was a legend in his own time. Every meal he stalked, every amusement he sought, was pursued as avidly as if it was his first Slayer and he was, as he liked to put it, back against the wall.

It was Buffy who told me about his death. It was just a footnote to the story, really. She  and her friends, including a busload of strange girls who shrieked and giggled incessantly, came by and she told me that the world wasn't ending and she wasn't alone anymore. There were Slayers all over the world, now.

At first I thought it meant something. To us.

But no, she was just telling me as one champion to another. Keeping me up to speed on the latest apocalypse. She told me the First Evil had been defeated, and that Spike saved the world.  She'd left before the very end, but considering the entire town was essentially sucked into hell, she was working on the assumption that he was dead.

She didn't seem very broken up about it, if you ask me.

I mean, not that I'd know. They only stayed here for a couple of days while they crashed after the big battle. We haven't spent a lot of time together in the last few years. But I knew. I've always known, with her. At least that's what I thought.

He hasn't asked about her. He will, I know. He has all the patience of a toddler on a sugar high, so I'm surprised he's managed to wait as long as he has.

Maybe he's different now; I don't know. I never knew him when he was human, although I saw him—stalking down the boulevard, ripping some paper to shreds, tears running down his face, expecting other people to get out of his way. Emotional and impulsive.

Come to think of it, not all that different from how he was after he was turned.

Maybe he doesn't remember Buffy. It doesn't seem very likely, but him coming here, with my Shanshu—no, not my Shanshu, obviously—well, Spike receiving the Shanshu doesn't seem very likely either, does it? Spike, who lived to run wild, whose salvation was found the first time he sank his fangs into someone's neck, being found worthy.

They found _him_ worthy, despite the fact that he would have torched the world if it would make her happy.

Christ, I don't even know which _her I mean. Does it even matter? Spike doesn't "love" somebody because of her virtue. He just develops some weird fixation, grabs on, and won't let go._

Is that why he was given it? Because he could love? Because that greedy little brawler "loved"? Doyle told me, years ago, that I needed more contact with humans. I needed more of a sense of connection with others, otherwise I'd eventually just view them as food. And so I'm around them now, every day. They're at work with me at Wolfram and Hart, and they're here with me at the hotel. I can't turn around without someone being there.

When he came in, Wes and Fred were just walking downstairs. The company limo, which had just dropped me off, was waiting to take us, any of us, wherever we wanted. Then the door opened and I turned from where I was leaning against the counter, chatting with Lorne, and he walked in, the sunlight creating a corona around him and leaving his face in shadow. For a moment I thought it was a Wolfram & Hart employee coming in to tell me the one-thousandth Very Important Thing that had happened in the twenty minutes since I left the office, and then I recognized him.

He's not the reason I'm upset. He hasn't got the power to make me feel lousy. He's just an annoyance; he's never been more than that, no matter what he tells himself.

So he's here, this unfortunate progeny of mine, while the son I love has faded from everyone's memory but mine.

And now I have eternity to appreciate that irony.

This is the kind of night I have more often now, when I reach first not for Rimbaud or Descartes or even Manilow, but for Scotch, good Scotch that can make me forget as thoroughly as the others have. Because remembering hurts.

Every regret Spike has will be wiped away. In a half-century he'll be mouldering under clods of dirt and won't be coming back. He'll be released from life, from unlife. The sins he committed while he was a vampire were washed away by the Shanshu, and the pains of his human existence will be cleansed by the afterlife.

And I'll still be here, looking forward to the rest of my unlife, stretching out before me endlessly. For a moment I remember, sharply, how I felt when Buffy told me she held Spike in her heart. I was sore with grief at losing Connor, but what she said still hurt.

But if two hundred years of existence has taught me anything, it's that no matter how bad things seem, they can always get worse.

So drink with me. Here's to unlife! The times I'll turn into Angelus. The friends I'll outlive. The son I gave away for his own good, who'll die in a fraction of the time I've spent on earth. All the times I'll shy away from love, so I won't tempt fate.

It's been tempted too much already, and its reactions are never kind.


	2. Wes

**Wes**

He's upstairs. Angel's staring up at the ceiling as if he could see through it and divine Spike's intentions, which he feels sure aren't good.

I didn't know who it was when he walked into the hotel, of course. I'd just come downstairs with Fred and was planning on an early stop at the gym before work when he came in, looking shabby and tired. At first I thought he was a client, someone who needed our help. I mean a client for Angel Investigations, of course, which is still the sign on the door, even though we haven't done any such work in months.

Taking down the sign would mean something none of us wants to admit.

Angel, of course, recognized him immediately. His whole body tensed and he shot across the lobby as if to drive this apparition from his home.

Because Spike couldn't be there. Spike was dead. I knew that much, I knew it from that little sleepover we had in June, when Buffy and Faith and Giles and an entire busload of squealing girls pulled up to hotel and piled out like they'd just arrived from Des Moines for cheerleading camp. They were tired, they were dirty, and some of them were injured. A man I'd never seen before, whom Faith hovered over, was fairly seriously wounded. There were sundry breaks and cuts, and Buffy had been run through by a sword, or something to that effect.

The first thing she said was, "Spike saved us."

I really wish that hadn't been the first thing she said.

Would it sound self-pitying to note that I seldom get what I want?

Seeing Buffy is never easy for Angel. No matter how much he moves on—and, indeed, I believe he has moved on, when she is not there to embody the past—it is painful for him, a reminder of what he cannot have. When she said that, he was unable to suppress a flinch.

She didn't seem to notice.

She was excited, I think—excited about the future. Because the existence of so many Slayers, all over the world, has freed her. She no longer has the burden of being one in all the world, which weighed so heavily on her in the past.

Of course, when I was her Watcher, she was also not the one Slayer. However, a sociopathic boon companion is less comforting than you might expect. Now Buffy is looking forward to a life that is without the isolation she once felt so keenly.

One in which Angel has no part.

She didn't say anything like that, at least not in front of me. But her eyes, it was clear to me, were focused on the future. She was looking forward, not to the past. As, indeed, Angel has been doing for the last few years.

And then this morning. Spike walked into the Hyperion, and Angel's past and future—expected future—unexpectedly collided. Spike, living and breathing. Spike, the recipient of the Shanshu I'd translated years ago. The prophecy I'd—we'd all—expected to be Angel's.

Now Angel's re-evaluating everything. All of his expectations in life have effectively been destroyed.

So Buffy is gone; Cordelia, in a hopeless coma, is gone; his Shanshu is gone; and he's effectively sold his soul to Wolfram and Hart … just like the rest of us, of course … and upstairs is a man he regarded as his nemesis, an eternal symbol of his crimes. One who would not exist except for him. One, whether Angel or Angelus, he firmly regarded as beneath him.

And he is rewarded by life, while Angel's punishment continues.

This will not be a pleasant few days in the hotel, as everyone settles in.

I think I may stay in my apartment for the next several nights. Fred can visit me there.

Of course, we really do see each other enough at the office. I'm not sure of wisdom of working with someone you're seeing; of course, when I was still with AI, Fred and I were not involved with each other. Admittedly, that was not my choice.

I don't believe the strain of working and living together helped Fred and Gunn's relationship. That was one of the reasons I insisted on retaining my own apartment, to Fred's surprise. Apparently she thought I'd just move in and take Gunn's place.

It's bad enough that I'm sleeping where he used to. And yet he and I continue to see each other every day, and try to pretend as if it isn't awkward.

I never had that problem with Lilah. There was no question of my cooperating with Wolfram and Hart during her lifetime, despite her repeated offers; despite the temptation, I was obstinate—that was the tenor of our relationship. Neither of us would ever give in.

No, that's not exactly true. She showed me a more vulnerable side, occasionally. I tried to ignore it; it disturbed me. I told myself that she was doing it only to manipulate me, much as she deliberately dropped bits of information to gauge my reaction. It was easier to think of her that way, as a user. Because that made us equal. Cold and professional and obdurate. Not needful and desperate.

Those are terrible things to be, and neither one of us wanted to admit it.

I don't know why her continued presence in my life disturbs me so. I have a sense of— obligation, when I'm around her. As if instead of chopping off her head, it was I who plunged the dagger into her throat.

Oh, my. If my father heard me say that overwrought phrase I'd never hear the end of it.

She's a living reproach, much like my father. Except for the not living part, that is. She, urging me to give into my passions. He, mocking me for the same. I really rather wish they could have met. I think Lilah was the one person who might have been able to put the old bastard in his place, and laughed while doing it.

I regret that I'll never see that.

I regret a lot of things, really.

I wonder how different things would turned out if we hadn't … become involved. I never would have consented to tour Wolfram and Hart, certainly—the only reason I did was to grasp the opportunity to free her. The elusive, or should I say illusive, opportunity.

Of course it didn't work. What does? Despite the enormity of the resources at our fingertips, I am more inclined than ever before to believe Yeats was right, that the center does not hold. Everything is so carefully balanced in this world—exquisitely on edge. And that fine balance is enough only to keep us in life, but not enough to allow us happiness. 

Do you want an example? Why, a year and a half ago, did Fred chose Gunn over me? Certainly I can find no fault with her choice, other than the small fact that it was not me. Yet their relationship faltered, even as I fell into a relationship with Lilah. A relationship that was supposed to be nothing more than the oblivion two bodies could give each other, with the added incentive of possibly gaining a professional advantage due to our intimacy. That's how it began. It ended with me taking an axe to her corpse, as her spirit lingered around me.

Her spirit lingers around me still, now corporeal, yet no more alive. She's gentler with me now than she was when she was alive, and that only makes things more painful.

So Fred went with Gunn, and I with Lilah, although that wasn't how I thought of it at the time. And now both relationships are dead. Fred and I have been seeing each other for some months now, yet the hope I once felt in her presence has been quelled by what went before it. Our relationship is tainted by what might have been.

Yes, I do believe I will stay in my apartment until things settle down. Fred can visit me there if she likes, but we really do see a lot of each other at the office; she's forever popping in and out of the research wing, bringing her bright smile and sunny ways to a place more accustomed to gloom.

Actually, now that I think on it the most valuable use of my time might be to spend the next few days interviewing Spike about his experiences. He told us bits and pieces today, but I believe his description was restrained by exhaustion and, possibly, by Angel's presence. During the day Angel will be sleeping and the hotel will be quiet, and Spike will want something to take up his time. Lilah can spread the word at work.

She always knows where to find me.


	3. Fred

**Fred**

He's upstairs. I hope he's all right. I mean, it had to be kind of uncomfortable for him— Angel glowering at him like a big batch of light-treated zinc sulfide, Wes asking him question after question, and him there, just trying to get used to being alive.

He looks like he should be sitting next to Wes doing research, or between Knox and me, doing experiments. Not like the monster Angel told us about after Spike went up to bed. When he was talking about how awful Spike was, I couldn't help thinking about Angelus, and the things he said to me. When he threatened to—anyway, I couldn't stop thinking about it. But I couldn't imagine Spike saying those things. Only Angel.

_Angelus_. I mean Angelus.

Spike doesn'tseem anything like Angelus. Actually, he kind of reminds me of Wesley. Shy, and sweet, and smart. He was squinting; I think he might need glasses. Tomorrow I'll take him to that eye place in the mall, and maybe we can stop by Wesley's on the way to get some different clothes for Spike. The things he's in now really don't fit at all, and I don't think anything Charles or Angel has would fit him. Or Lorne, of course, but I doubt Spike wants to go to the mall dressed in Lorne's clothes anyway. Oh, and shoes. He needs shoes.

Now that I think about it, he kind of reminds me of Knox, too. I mean, he's not funny like Knox, and he probably doesn't know that much about physics, or at least not most of the post-Newtonian things, like quantum physics and Feynman's theory of—well, you know. Vampire, not really the kind of thing they keep up with. 

But anyway, what I mean about Knox is, they get these cute looks on their faces when they're thinking. Sometimes when we're working late Knox will be screwing up his face and I'll be chewing my hair, and we'll just look at each other and start laughing. We're both such spazzes.

I don't have to work late, really. But Wes usually does and it's depressing, being in the hotel all by myself. Angel keeps those night hours, and Cordy's still in a coma, and Lorne's doing god knows what with god knows who, and Gunn … well, sometimes he's there, but I'm still not really comfortable being alone with him. Not because he'd say anything; it's just that sometimes I feel bad for becoming involved with Wes so soon after we broke up. It's not that I think he's still in love with me or anything, except … well, maybe that is what I mean. I don't think he's moving on the way he should.

Believe me, I know about not moving on. Every day Lilah's there at Wolfram and Hart, a different expensive-looking scarf or choker or whatever hiding the mark Wesley put across her neck. But sometimes she wears something low-cut, with no jewelry or scarf, and it's like she's showing off the scar instead. When she first appeared at the hotel to suggest we join Wolfram and Hart, she pulled the material away from her throat and said that Wes had done it to keep her from becoming her from becoming a vampire. To protect her. 

It's like it's his mark on her, and sometimes she likes to show it off. Like she's reminding everyone who put it there.

I suppose I could just go home and leave Wes there with his books and, well, _her_, but staying late is fine. I mean, I don't think anything's happening, but it's so easy to become involved with someone you work with. I mean, look at me and Wes, and me and Charles—but I'm really not worried. Besides, I love my work; it's what I've always dreamed of.

I wonder if Knox remembered to get the menu from that new Thai place yet. If not, we can call the barbecue place again tomorrow, or just get Chinese takeout. They do this great duck thing, but you have to order it a day in advance. 

Maybe I should call him and ask. Then Wes and I should probably go up ourselves; we've got a long day tomorrow, since we missed work today.

You know, when weird things happen, like today? I'm really glad I have him.


	4. Lorne

**Lorne**

He's upstairs. Let me tell you something, sugarplums, when he came in with those cheekbones and blue-blue eyes my little heart went pitter-pat, but he's already taken. When Angel went into the other room to calm down and everybody went after him, the kid sat on the big hoo-ha in the lobby and hummed to himself a little. Poor, sweet, stupid kid; he's my new best friend. I'll tell him tomorrow.

I tried to get the Slayer to sing for me when she and her crew drifted by a couple of months ago, but she just smiled and ignored my little suggestion. Doesn't matter. I could hear her "I love you" breathing through the old folk ditty he hummed, and I could hear him saying she didn't mean it, but thanks. 

'Course, he was lying. He believed her.

Anyway, Angel's fuming like a smokestack, and who can blame him? All that work, and Yum-Yum gets his heartbeat. He must want to kill something. A specific something with a pulse, I'd say.

You know, now that I think about it I'm pretty relieved that the kid decided to go to bed early.

If Angel stands there gnashing his teeth and clenching his fists any longer, he's going to develop a hernia. Which, considering that he'd undead, really won't do a thing to him. So he should be grateful he's not human, right? Humans have to put up with nasty physical ailments, like lumbago, and, uh … mange? Not fun at all.

Okay, the ship has sailed. The Shanshu ship sailed. Hey, try say that five times fast! But no, I'm serious here. He already has a soul, so it's not like Shanshu=forgiven, not Shanshu=burn in hell. What's so good about being human anyway? The ability to die of the plague? Go, death! Hey, he plays a good game of chess, but other than that? Avoid the guy.

Actually, now that I think about it? Avoid him extra with the chess.

I know about Angel's day as a mortal. "Mandy," remember? I never told him, because it's easier for him to handle these things on his own; the guy's not big on the sharing, which can be a good thing. If he had someone to talk about that with, that would be all he'd do, relieve the day over and over again. This way, he can push it to the back of his mind and keep going.

The thing is, he doesn't want to be human. No matter what he tells himself, no matter what he thinks it means. If he was human he'd just be one more schlub in a city full of them. And guys who want to be schlubs don't buy hotels or run evil corporate empires. Er, corporate empires formerly associated with evil and now pretty much in a gray area. But leaning towards good! It's a start, right?

Anyway, the point is that guys who want to be schlubs sit quietly in their rooms, trying to make themselves too small to attract attention. The guy upstairs? He wants be a schlub. Angel? Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin. And I love the guy, but how could he expect to get the Shanshu after accepting Wolfram and Hart? Nothing good could come from that deal, except for my significantly-improved placement in Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. And front-row seats to Tom Jones, and all the dish on everyone I ever thought of stalking. And their home phone numbers.

Well now that I think about it, I guess maybe_ good is relative. Or maybe it's __nothing that's relative. But the thing is, it was a selfish act on Angel's part, taking over Wolfram and Hart. It was selfish of all of us. Hey, I accept that; I never claimed to be the Pylian Mother Theresa—although, little known fact? She was actually a Sygarn demon. And let me tell you something, those—okay, topic._

Anyway, was selfish of Angel to accept the firm, just like it was selfish of the rest of us. But I don't think most of us were expecting a miracle, or even hoping for one. Yeah, the firm is fun. Yeah, unlimited power's neat. But he knew what he was getting into—we all did. 

Except maybe the kid upstairs. Now he's in bed, or at least in his room, with a bunch of people who once saved lives and solved problems, and now just wheel and deal and look really scrumptious in Italian suits.

I like my life. I like what joining Wolfram and Hart has done to it. But I'm not sure it can end up anywhere good. For god's sake, the offer came from Reptilica as a reward for stopping world peace.

And if I was the kid upstairs? I think I'd run.


	5. Gunn

**Gunn**

He's upstairs. The others are all excited, like something big's about to happen. Well, it isn't—he's just a guy. No superpowers, no big mojo, in serious need of a haircut. He isn't much of a threat to anything, except maybe Angel's peace of mind. And let's face it, Angel didn't have that much of it to lose. The man likes to brood.

And no, I haven't bothered to tell any of them to relax—it's a horse/water kind of thing, they have to find out for themselves. They'll find out their own way.

I never expected to find my way at Wolfram and Hart, that's for sure. In the beginning it seemed like a sucker deal—how could Wolfram and Hart, which caused half the shit that came down on us every damn day, teach us anything? Some of us sold our souls to help others, while Lilah and the rest of them sold theirs for a corner office.

But Wolfram and Hart didn't make people evil; I understand that now. Evil people joined it because they wanted its power. 

Now the right people are in charge of Wolfram and Hart. I don't know what the Senior Partners were thinking when they offered it to Angel, but it's done, a done deal and they can't have it back. The good guys are in charge for once, and I know they're doing the right thing—Angel and Wes and all of them are making us proud out there with their … stuff, doing … stuff … hell, I don't know, I'm up there in the big cat room, what do you expect me to know? I get the visions, I tell them what they should know. I don't tell them all the stuff I see, because I see a lot of confusing shit and they'd get be confused. I know what I'm doing—the others may be fighting evil to help Angel, but I was doing it for years before I met him. They don't have to worry about me.

And Angel may not the kind of guy to look at it this way, but face it, we won: it's Miller Time.

Maybe it sounds too good to be true, but I'm in the room up there, and I know _exactly_ what's happening. I know everything's good. It may not seem normal for things to go right, but I'd say our luck has changed.

So there's no reason to be worried: the guy upstairs? No problem. Wolfram and Hart? It's does whatever we want. And me? Time to go upstairs and get ready to see Gwen; she's a fun girl to spend time with now that she doesn't electrocute people. When I mentioned her to Lacey, she said maybe Gwen should join the firm. I think I'll mention it to her tonight; she'd fit right in. And everybody knows her already, so that's a good.

There's nothing like combining business and pleasure, right?

It may not have worked out in the past, but as I said before: our luck has changed.

It's about time.


	6. Spike

**Spike**

He's upstairs. I can hear him stomping around, even with my shiny new human ears. I'm on the second floor, in what I guess was the first empty bedroom, and he's on the third floor now, sounds like. Not surprising, really. He always did like to be on top.

The look on his face when I came in … like he was seeing a mirage. A not terribly welcome one. Again, not very surprising.

Where else could I go? I can't go to_ her, because I don't know where she is. I can't go to Dru, because that's long over. Besides, wouldn't feel right, going to her after I threatened to stake her and all, and I'm not interested in a retread of our past, either as lovers or as sire and childe. I can't imagine it would be another way, with her—she never was much with the nurturing, anyway. That was more my bag._

Not that I need nurturing. What, am I some baby bird, all helpless and tiny? Bugger that. I saved the world.

So where the hell did he expect me to go? Sure, I guess he wasn't expecting me, but it's not like I'm here to rub my humanity in his face. 

That's more of a fringe benefit, really.

I think this is the part where I'm supposed to tell you what hell's like, right? Sorry, didn't go there. Didn't go anywhere. I went up in flames, love-words from Buffy still echoing in my ears, and the next thing I know is I'm lying bare-assed naked in a damned crater of what could politely be called scorched earth. Since the sun was beating down on me and I wasn't on fire, I assumed it was the afterlife, and since it was the middle of nowhere, I figured I was in hell. Not Dantesque, perhaps, but why would hell have seven circles if they were all the same? Apparently I was in the hell that consigned its inhabitants to eternity without proper sun protection.

I scrambled out of the hole—_Now leaving Sunnydale!—and then realized I was hungry.  Not for blood. That's when it sank in._

A few miles outside town there was a vineyard, and I followed the rows of vines to a little house with laundry on the line, like something out of an old movie. And so I made my way to L.A., dressed in another man's clothes and wearing another vampire's redemption.

That's what he thinks, at least. Me? I never had redemption in mind. I got the soul for her, to protect her; it came with baggage I wasn't expecting. 

But if he was the one meant to become human, it would be him here with chapped lips and sunburned skin in a pair of khakis and a T-shirt extolling the virtues of Amsterdam's Hard Rock Café, which I can tell you is nothing special. That burger is not worth the wait. Of course, it helps if you eat the people ahead of you.

I'm not staying here long—just until I get my strength up and find out where she's living. I'm just glad it's not here. If she was here when I walked in—well, I guess this would have been hell after all.

I wonder if she's happy. What if she has a boyfriend? I watched her with Riley, and in her maneuverings with Wood, but I don't think I could watch her with another man now. Not after she held me through the night, and told me that she loved me.

I know she survived the battle. Angel hasn't said a word—bastard, wants to see how long I'll wait before I ask—but I'd feel it if she hadn't. I knew she wouldn't let the world end, and it was my job to make sure she didn't.

I failed before, but not this time.

If he thinks I'm going to give him the satisfaction, he's sadly mistaken. His crew can't be around all the time, and the second they're gone I'll be looking through the place for word of her.

Yeah, some things never change. I think it's something Angel doesn't realize—he thinks that becoming a human is some kind of magical panacea. Okay, it's magical, I'll give him that, but it only changes things on the outside. Superficial things. Okay, being able to go out in the sunlight is nice, toilet needs less so.

   
But a heartbeat doesn't change who you are. I told Buffy, years ago, that Drusilla was the face of my salvation, but all becoming a vampire did to me was allow William's primal instincts to come out. I was still unashamed to be love's bitch; that's why Big Blue threatened to toast me when I was in the chair, because I could still love. And that's why Angel wants to be human more than anything else. Not to be with Buffy, but so he will no longer be the man the Judge laid his hand upon and said had nothing human in him. Because even with a soul, Angel knows he's only a moment of happiness away from that. He's not even sure how far he is from it with the soul.

He tells himself that becoming human will change all that. And I walk in, and I'm still Spike, not William. I bet it's making him clench his teeth—he always did that when he was pissed but wanted to seem too cool to react; he's a hell of a clencher. He must be in torment. He must hate me.

The part he's not telling himself is that if he becomes human, he'll die, and that's part of why he wants it. 

Come on, I know all about the wanker's attempt to off himself a few years ago. Yeah, the First was pushing him. I know for myself that the First is really good at hitting all our buttons.

The thing was, he never chose not to die. It was chosen for him by some miracle snow. Angel the champion was not allowed to die, and when he came down here and became Angel the subject of prophecies, he thought he had some big destiny. Easy come, easy go, I say. He got cheated? He got the gift of eternal life. If he doesn't like it, he can stake himself or set himself on fire or wait for sunrise and see if it snows again. For god's sake, don't just bitch and brood and carry on about what a burden it is to be cursed. Accept it and _move the fuck on._

I can't believe he's two-hundred damn years old and hasn't figured that one out yet.

On a related note, I bet if I whistled "Get Happy" under my breath, he'd break a tooth. 

You know, now that I think about it? Being human might be bloody _great_.


	7. Cordy

**Cordy**

Where I am now? The same place I've been for a long time. I'm surprisingly calm. I mean, I see them down there, and I shake my head, and look at them in wonder. Sometimes I shout at them at little—honestly, do they lose brain cells by the day?

You know my role in the group—the ruthlessly blunt truthteller? Well, that's what I was there for. To stop them from making a stupid, asinine, unbelievable mistake like joining Wolfram and Hart. That's why they made sure I'm here, so I couldn't stop them. Not so Jasmine could try to take over the world—that was a smokescreen, the fake big bad so that the real big bad seemed like nothing in comparison. Jasmine threatened world domination—Wolfram and Hart merely threatened the souls of the gang. That's what they all think. They're not seeing the big picture.

If I'd been there I would have stopped it. What could Wolfram and Hart bribe me with? Skip, that little creep, offered me my perfect life in place of becoming part demon, and I rejected it so I could stay with Angel and the rest of them. Help them. Why couldn't they see that some things are too good to be true? How could Wes not see it—_Wes?_ Isn't he supposed to be smart? Isn't smart the entire point of Wes? Or Fred? I mean, besides eating like a teamster and not gaining an ounce, of course.

Incidentally? I don't want to hear about how Skip tricked me. I think about that enough on my own, thanks.

It's easy to see things clearly up here.

Yeah, I know about what happened in Sunnydale. Surprisingly? When a portal to hell closes up, it's pretty big celestial news. They served Champale and Chex Mix, followed by what could reasonably be described as the Heavenly All-Stars' version of the wave.

Angel's wondering if he made the right decision. He's thinking about Spike there in the hotel, all human and, well, human, and he's pissed off, because Spike got his Shanshu. It was Angel's role to save the world and Spike got in the way and died instead. He had the glorious save-the-world death that Angel should have had, the one with Buffy looking on all dewy-eyed, holding hands and going on about love and blah blah blah until I could throw up. I mean, come on—some cookies just aren't meant to be eaten.

The thing is, he doesn't know that he made the wrong decision in all kinds of ways, and that was the one that mattered least.

But I can't help them from up here. They're down there, believing everything Lilah tells them. Well, maybe not everything, but close enough. After all, Gunn would tell them if something was up, right? The thing is, Gunn's being played, just like the rest of them. What, like they're going to give one of Angel's crew the keys to the city? Information even Lilah doesn't have access to? They think Gunn's got a direct line to the Powers? He's got a direct line to the Senior Partners. They tell him what they want him to know. Period.

Incidentally, somebody has got to tell the guy that "Mr. Angel"? Sounds like an interior decorator.

He's not getting a lot of sympathy at the Hyperion right now, but they can't judge Angel, any of them. They don't know why he made his choices. 

I do. I remember Connor; I'm the only one who does now, besides Angel. The thing is, what he did for Connor was an act of love.

Love is great at making people do the wrong thing.

They don't realize, any of them, that the answer is on the second floor, tucked into bed. What, you thought this was just some innocent little magical resurrection? Why do you think Wolfram and Hart has been interested in Angel for so long? Because the vampire who Shanshus is a big deal. But only Wolfram and Hart knows that. They gave Angel the pendant that held Shanshu. They made it possible for Angel to give Connor a new life. To take Connor and make him someone else, someone who could never again be Connor Angel, the supernatural son of two vampires, such a powerful force against evil that he was known as the Destroyer. 

Now he's just a boy wondering what he should major in. No threat to anyone, except maybe freshman girls who like their boys skinny. 

And no matter what Spike thinks, he isn't going to find Buffy. He isn't going anywhere.

They're all chess pieces, and Wolfram and Hart have maneuvered them so carefully they don't even realize it.

They will soon. God help them, they will soon.

**The End**


End file.
